


The Death of Art

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 00:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11932653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan and Vera attend a show.





	The Death of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Writing fics that celebrate the arts with these two involved is such a guilty pleasure of mine. I love incorporating my own passions into this. In any case, enjoy!

Tonight marks a monumental occasion.

To the opera, they go.

Upon Miss Ferguson's insistence, Vera does not pay. Still, Vera feels obligated to compensate somehow. Curiosity has compelled her to glance at the prices for tickets which sent her spiraling into a near panic. When she tried to protest, Joan simply held a finger to her lips and said, “You earned it.”

Now, here they stand.

Illuminated at night, the Sydney Opera House makes for a stupendous sight. The rippling water captures such a dazzling reflection; the lights paint the recreated image in soft shades of neon.

Spellbound, Vera finds herself incapable of moving. She stands; she stares as though her life's unraveled at the very seams. Give it time, it will.

They dress for the occasion. Limited in aesthetically pleasing outfits to wear, Vera was forced to invest. After stressing over the situation for a week, she settles on an a-line dress that stops right above the knees. Joan, on the other hand, sticks to a well-tailored suit in vantablack. It's abysmal in shade. She wears a violently violet tie to compliment Vera's orchid-colored dress. The lapels of her suit hold a pleather gleam. Her hair's been meticulously pulled back into a ponytail whereas Vera's curls flow freely. For Joan Ferguson, there is always an element of restraint. The contrast is jarring, but welcome.

Studying Vera's reactions proves to be a delight in itself. Watching her deputy carefully, Joan smirks. Flicks her wrist to usher the little lamb into the pasture.

“After you,” she drawls in that husky tenor.

The mouse scurries ahead, her heels clicking across the walkway.

Lamb, mouse; the animal symbolism never dulls.

"I've never been to the Opera before..."

In a perpetual state of awe, blue-grey eyes widen. She looks to the ceiling, to the front entrance, to the interior that makes her feel as though she's lingering in the mouth of a cave, awaiting the arrival of some greater beast.

"Of course you haven't," Joan quips.

A cryptic smile splays across her glossy, nude lips, accompanied by a knowing look that ignites her granite eyes. She's pleased to be in the company of someone she enjoys rather than the toils and frustrations of her lackluster staff.

The crowd filters in. Panic jumpstarts a fragile, doe-like heart. Vera's fingers wiggle. A hand on her back stills her. Calms her nerves.

"I've tickets for a box seat," Joan declares.

The most minute of statements make her sound so self-assured. Vera both admires and envies the fact. She feels the Governor's mouth by her ear, feels the heat from her breath. Her heart tightens, her stomach drops.

“Oh,” she responds rather lamely and follows in the perfect display of obedience.

Erik Satie's _Socrate_ premieres tonight. Over time, the manuscript has been lost. Plato's writings capture the rise and fall of his beloved mentor.

When seated, Vera scrunches her button nose. Docile hands rest in her lap.

"Composed in 1917, the original score was written in French," Joan comments idly when the lights begin to dim. Lithe arms drape across the rests of the chair; she refuses to make hand-contact with the object despite sanitizing it at great length.

"You enjoy the deeper meaning, don't you?"

Ah, so she catches on at last.

Bemused, Joan's stare flickers over to the younger woman. She commits her profile to memory, assessing every response no matter how slight.

"Why, Plato's reverence for Socrates could juxtapose our own mentorship, Vera."

Vera clutches the playbill. Reads the synopsis. Glosses over the ensemble. Names, names, names she doesn't recognize.

“I've, um, never been a philosopher, Joan. A dreamer, maybe, but not this,” she meekly replies with a gesture to the stage where the actors make themselves known.

Joan caters to the role of teacher, opening up Vera in ways she had never been exposed before.

"Socrates utilized his mind in ways that others could not. For his time, he was quite revolutionary. That manner of thinking was... above them all and so, they condemned him."

Indeed, the Government disputes logic; there is nothing there. Plato's texts are envisioned with a wise man standing trial. The Symphonic drama goes on. It's neither the best nor the worst. Joan's expressions remain impassive.

Vera wonders if she'll ever be able to decipher the modern rendition of a stoic beside her.

Maybe not; it's the heart she's after.

"Perhaps we should practice the Socratic Method sometime, hm?"

"I'd need you to teach me, Joan."

"That can be arranged."

A lascivious purr follows.

"I know that I know nothing."

A ghost of a smile signifies Joan's content.

"You're learning, Vera."

Somewhere along the way, Vera drops the playbill. In the cover of darkness, she doesn't make a grab at it. Rather, she finds herself distracted by the tantalizing hand creeping under her dress.

Those graceful fingers caress her inner thigh, venturing down to her knee and up again. A scorching heat radiates from her panties. Fingers tease her cruelly, never quite meeting her burning center.

"But Joan--" She protests.

Promptly shushed, Vera falls silent. Nervous habits die hard; she chews on her bottom lip. Tastes the vanilla flavored gloss; tastes herself.

"Vera, my dear. No one will notice." Her sonorous voice lulls the smaller woman into a false sense of security. Persuaded, Vera's shoulders slump down just a tad.

"Sit on my lap," she commands with a hearty pat.

Vera feels the heat rising to her cheeks. She's certain her face has turned cherry red. Relieved for the darkness of this place, she seeks refuge on someone so statuesque.

Timidly, she crawls over and sits with her back to Joan's chest. Beneath her, she feels the labor of breath – slow and steady; even the way Joan Ferguson breathes carries a weight to it. A precision like no other.

Time and time again, Vera finds herself enthralled.

Shapely legs come to rest on either side. Her bare calves scrape against Joan's trousers. On her lap, she wriggles a bit. Tries to get comfortable.

"Do try to remain inconspicuous," Joan murmurs against her cheek.

Her thumb presses lightly into the hollow indentation of Vera's throat, her lips upon her neck.

The hem of her skirt drifts further up. Her palms seek support by clutching Joan's thighs. Joan pushes aside the bridge of Vera's silken panties worn only for extravagant occasions (hell, they're few and far in between) such as this one.

Down below, Joan strokes her swollen lips. She's drenched. A blush consumes her. Spreads across her cheeks and chest. A knuckle teases her slit, never quite seeking purchase inside.

An adjacent couple with their binoculars focused on the soprano are unaware of the scene to their left.

Unable to control her bodily responses, Vera moans. Breath quivers within the confines of her throat.

"Sh, sh, sh..."

Her mentor hushes her, dexterous fingers tracing the curve of her mouth before slipping inside. With a muffled groan, Vera laps at them. Tastes the salt from the body's ardor, a hint of antiseptic at the surface, and Joan's delicious taste buried beneath.

"Take it slow," Joan whispers despite the amplified voices of the actors flitting across the stage.

She retracts her fingers from such a sweet mouth. Slithering downward, she teases relentlessly, lingering outside before delving in. It takes time to build momentum: one finger, then two.

"Y-yours" is stammered out, thrown into the mix.

At the sudden sensation, Vera squirms. Her walls clench around Joan. A third finger enters her and again, she tries not to moan. In the nick of time, a palm clamps over her mouth to muffle the wanton cry.

The back of her head falls back on Joan's shoulder. She feels gloriously full. Joan rocks against her, lips breezing across her neck.

Vera feels enveloped by her – so totally surrounded and consumed by Joan.

She fucks her to the melody that forms on stage, to the Socratic irony (an absolute negative) apparent in the script. Knuckles deep, she pumps her fingers at a fluid pace.

Vera's toes curl in her heels. She spreads her legs further apart to compensate for the increased speed. That firm, authoritative hand no longer restricts her mouth, sliding over her throat and lingering, instead, on her collarbone.

Utilizing the strength of her forearm, Joan applies pressure – works her thumb into her swollen clit until Vera's gasping for air.

It's a Devil of a time.

“Come for me.”

And she does. Her body shivers, shakes, caught up in the storm of rapture. She clenches around Joan's curled fingers, her mewls tuned out by the delicate song of the piano. Nails dig into Joan's thighs, her back arched, chest heaving.

Joan buries her smirk into curve of her neck.

She retracts herself from Vera, her wrist dangling mid-air. The scent of her little mouse presents an immense allure. However, Joan remains in control of her unchecked desires. As much as she would enjoy throwing her down and tasting her until she came again, she exercises patience instead.

“An unexamined life is not worth living,” she hums, low and throaty, repeating Socrates' fine speech.

Again, she traces the bow of Vera's lips with her fingers. There, Vera tastes herself mingled with Joan.

Her other palm delivers a hearty slap to a bronze thigh, ushering her away from this throne.

The lighters flicker on and Vera struggles to fix herself, sitting beside Joan once more. Flushed, she titters.

“I think I appreciate the arts a bit more now...”

Raising a brow, Joan doesn't reply; the thin smirk speaks in volumes.

**Author's Note:**

> If I'm not mistaken, Satie's Socrate is a lesser known work and pieces of the original manuscript have been eradicated with age or have gone missing. It's a smaller opera compared to other, well known ones so to have it play in such a large venue might seem odd. I used Socrate on purpose given the mentorship between Socrates and Plato; I wanted it to serve as a parallel to Joan and Vera. Additionally, my interpretation isn't entirely accurate to Socrate; it's a surface level introspection that's been made into a loose piece of fiction to propel the narrative forward.


End file.
